Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 92835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Even with all of this—
I'll never make it right.
But I can't dwell on the loss now. I need to do this. I need to find some fucking way to do this.
I murmurer a confirmation to Danielle.
She shifts fully into photographer mode, setting up her equipment, checking the light, oblivious to everything except the photo in her head.
I move into the kitchen. Find gin in the fridge. The promise of escape is tempting.
The taste of juniper, citrus, Danielle's lips.
But I can't do it.
I need to feel this.
Every ounce of it.
Danielle moves into the bedroom. I close my eyes, try to find some way to soften my shoulders.
Then she steps into the main room in her silk robe and my other thoughts disappear.
Fuck, I need to push that off her shoulders. Pin her to the wall. Slide my hand between her legs.
I need to be in that perfect place where the world makes sense.
That's what she wants to capture—how badly I need to fuck her.
You're overthinking this, Adam. She wants to fuck you. You want to fuck her.
Why do you make everything so damn complicated?
Take the pictures. Touch her like you want her. Touch her until she's purring and coming on your hand.
Then throw her on the table and fuck her on camera.
That's the win-win here.
Not shoving it in that asshole's face.
Fucking her.
And having photos of you fucking her.
Win.
More win.
"Are you ready?" Her voice is equal parts gentle and firm. She's careful with me, but she's still in control.
I usually hear that tone with doctors, physical therapists, medical professionals tasked with my recovery.
It's different on her.
Honest.
Vulnerable.
Incredibly appealing.
"Yes." I force a breath through my nose. I can do this. I can.
"Here, to start." She motions to the wide window, the one looking out on the Hudson. "I want a few silhouettes of you."
I move across the room.
She studies me carefully. Not with concern I might break. An artist, studying her subject. "Your back to me."
I turn to the window.
"Be natural."
"Natural?"
"Look at the river."
I do.
"Put your hands in your pockets. And think."
"How can you tell I'm thinking from the back?"
"Body language." Her voice softens. "I want to capture your presence. You have a power to you when you walk into a room. You know you can control it. But you're afraid too. Because of how people see you now?"
"Yes."
"What about before?"
"I didn't think about it."
Click. She snaps a photo.
I jump.
"This is a digital camera. The sound is fake. To emulate the sound of a shudder closing in a manual camera."
"Why do manufacturers add it?"
"To make it feel more real, I guess. I can turn it off if it's distracting."
"I won't know what you've photographed."
"I'll show you everything. I promise."
"No. I don't mind it."
"Good." Click. "I can put on music too. Do you really like new wave?"
"I do."
"Do you want some?"
"You're the photographer."
"You're the actor. I need you in the right head space."
"I'm not showing my face."
"Even so. If you don't like the song, it will show in your body language."
Will music quiet the what the fuck are you thinking voice in my head? Or will it amplify it? "How do you normally shoot?"
"Usually, quiet. Sometimes, music. Sexy music." She laughs. "To set the mood."
"Then whatever you think will set the mood."
"Okay."
I turn back to her. Watch as she picks up her phone, finds the song she wants, streams it to the speakers.
A breathy voice fills the space. Then a soft jazz instrumental.
It's exactly the mood of her images.
Sexy, intimate, feminine.
Click. She snaps a photo of me watching her. "I'll keep you anonymous. I promise."
"I trust you."
"Good." She smiles. Snaps another photo. "Give me one more of your back."
I turn to face the window. Whenever people visited, they gushed over the view. Mostly Bash, Simon, Liam. The dates they wanted to show off.
Occasionally, a woman I was fucking.
A few wanted to be pressed against the glass, on display for the entire city.
I never agreed.
Would Danielle want that?
It's not the right time of year. The glass is ice cold.
But this summer—
If she's here—
If we return—
She snaps another handful of photos, then she asks me to turn. When I do, she studies me again.
It's strange and intoxicating, being her subject, seeing the focus in her dark eyes, knowing it's all mine.
"Adam Pierce in his element." She looks to my hair. Eyes. Shoulders. Hands. "What would you do, if a woman was coming over for sex?"
"A woman. Or you?"
"If I was coming over."
"You're here now."
"Imagine I'm not. I'm out with friends. I'm due home in an hour. You're home. Alone. Comfortable. Thinking of what's to come. How do you prepare?"
"Prepare?"
"Would you pour a drink? Take off your jacket? Roll your shirtsleeves to your elbows? Touch yourself?"
"Touch myself?"
"You haven't."
"Fucked myself before a date?"
She nods.
"In high school," I say. "Simon's advice. To ease the tension."
"Not recently?"
"No."
"Not to completion, then. To… stimulation."